“Till I am sixty! So many years to live together, you and I, if Heaven should spare us. Such a long and happy life, if you only love me all the time. Oh, what can I do to keep you loving me all these long, long years?” aspirated Drusilla, in a sort of repressed fervor.
“Be beautiful, be happy and love me—that is all,” he answered. “And now put on some outer garment and come with me, and I will show you what little is to be seen of our small place.”
Drusilla took a gray hooded cloak from the hands of the maid who had run and fetched it for her, and she wrapped herself in it, drew the hood over her head, and took the offered arm of Alexander.
He led her out of the front door and down the step of the porch to the broad carriage drive that had been cleared through the cedars from the house to the gate.
It was a fine wintry day. A little snow had fallen during the night, just sufficient to cover the ground with a white garment and powder the cedars like coachmen’s wigs; but the sky was now clear and the sun bright.
They walked down the drive to the gate, and then, at Alexander’s suggestion, turned about and leaned against the gate, and faced the front of the cottage to take a look at it.
“A mere toy palace, or doll’s house, as I told you,” said Alexander, disparagingly.
“It is a beauty. But perhaps you are comparing it with spacious Crowood or lofty Lyon Hall; in which case it must suffer by comparison in size, I grant you, but not in beauty,” said Drusilla, gazing on her home with perfect satisfaction.
“I am very glad you approve of it, darling, even in its half finished condition. In another year I will see what money and taste can do to convert it into a paradise for you,” said Alexander.
“The sweet spot is Arcadia already. But how were you so fortunate as to get it, dear Alexander? And have you rented it, or bought it?” she asked.